I've never been one to give up on a sequence, and I'll be damned if I do it now. Day 26, you're up, you bastard.
On Finding Out
Just
when we thought it couldn’t get blacker,
the
sun goes down.
A
sickness blisters.
The
ceiling holds an indefinable answer,
though
to stare
is
to let the minutes
tremble
from your eyes.
They
loop the neck to strangle,
every
breath less real in its certainty.
What
have we been doing all these year?
The
faded games of unknowing
sound
in our ears
as
uncontrolled explosions,
taking
us by surprise
like
lost cities.
Like
the noises we make
when
we’re dying.
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